


My Oh My

by Rehfan



Series: White Ladder [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hateful things spoken in anger, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Rage, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is NOT OK with the breakup. Sherlock is oblivious until John lets loose. Sherlock realizes that he's not OK either -- right before he shuts his heart down completely.</p><p>The arc of a relationship. Two people who are meant to be with one another will always find one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock Johnlock fanfic that is based on the music of David Gray's album, White Ladder. Each chapter is named after each track in sequence and is headed with a quote from that particular song.
> 
> The album was released in 1999, but it's one of my favorite albums and it is available for download on iTunes. Please download it. You won't regret it.
> 
> Part Three is based on this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMLsZrpTbwU

“What on earth is going on in my heart?  
Has it turned as cold as stone?  
Seems these days I don’t feel anything,  
‘Less it cuts me right down to the bone.”

 

“Love is a disadvantage, John.”

The words hung in the air for three solid months. They faded in and out depending on what John was focused on, but they were always there.

“I need to end this.”

It wasn’t fair. Once again, Sherlock made a huge unilateral decision where he had no place to and it cut John to the bone to have it said to him so coldly, so clinically. It was like an emotional dissection happening before his eyes; one that involved John’s still-beating heart.

Sherlock actually looked put out when John needed him to explain his reasoning: “It’s a simple logical conclusion, John. We are so busy trying to have this emotional connection that it’s clouding our true purpose. We work together on cases. Important cases. I need you to be able to focus on them. Sex is too distracting. Love is a disadvantage, John.”

“Love is a disadvantage, John.”

That bastard.

That machine.

And just after having sex too. What an insult. Sherlock knew he wanted to break it off when John came back from his medical conference. True, John had been quite eager to get his hands on the man his heart told him he loved and he didn’t let Sherlock speak. But honestly, those were not the words he was expecting to hear. Ever. At all.

Somewhere in the back of his addle-pated brain, John hoped that he and Sherlock would manage to grow old together. If Sherlock would calm down enough in order to grow old, that is. His life and the haphazard way he lived it would see him in an early grave if it weren’t for his favorite blogger.

And now what was John to do? Continue to stand by the side of the man he loved so desperately even though he could never touch him again? Could never kiss him again? Could never hold him again? It was unfair, unfair, unfair. 

And how was Sherlock through these painful days? By all appearances he was fine, just fine. Of course he was. He was a Holmes, after all. And sentiment has no place in the clockwork heart of a Holmes.

John kicked himself. He should have known better. He hated his heart for loving that man even now. How dare it betray the rest of his body like that? How dare it continue to beat even though the world has stood gray and still for the past three months?

John wondered how he could continue. What was the point?

 

~080~

 

Care for a pint? – GL

The text couldn’t have come at a better time. Fresh off of the Trent house murder case, Sherlock was bored and therefore unbearable.

“Going out,” he said over his shoulder at a reclining Sherlock as he grabbed his jacket.

“What?” asked Sherlock. John didn’t answer.

“John?”

The front door slammed shut.

 

~080~

 

The pub was crowded for a Thursday night and John was glad for it. He looked across the room and spotted Greg Lestrade. Lestrade waved him over and the two men were halfway into their first pints before either of them spoke.

“Stroke of genius, you finding that puncture wound on the body, doc,” said Greg, giving John his widest grin.

“It was nothing. Nothing at all,” said John taking another pull on his pint. “Just don’t tell Molly Hooper I found it. I wouldn’t want to upset her. She is very good at what she does.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate,” said Greg. “I know that Doctor Hooper is very good at what she does. She’s also very good at filling out a spectacular Christmas dress.” Greg gave John a sly grin.

“Hey, I thought you had patched it up with the missus?” John asked. Greg put his head down and mumbled something too softly for John to hear in the din of the pub, but his body language spoke volumes.

“No good trying counseling or something?” offered John. Greg shook his head.

“Sorry, mate,” said John. Somehow it was comforting to know that someone else was as miserable as he.

“What about you and Sherlock? Still have eyes for one another?” asked Greg.

“I’m afraid that’s done and over with. Has been for three months now,” said John and Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “NOT my decision,” John added.

“I see,” said Greg. He paused to finish off his pint and John did the same. “Next round’s on me then, mate. How you put up with that selfish git in the first place is beyond me.”

Eight pints later, both men swayed out of the pub.

“In the morning, my body is going to remind me that I’m no longer twenty-three years of age. I can feel it,” said Greg.

“I know what you mean,” John said with a grin. “But all the same, glad I did it. Thanks for this, Greg. I really needed to get out.”

“Think nothing of it, mate,” said Greg as he flagged down a cab to take them both home. “Anytime.”

 

~080~

 

221 B was quiet when John came up the stairs. He didn’t even look in the sitting room. He just went straight to his bedroom on the third storey, restored from a lab to a bedroom since the breakup. He tripped on the last stair before the landing, but caught himself. He giggled at his own drunkenness and realized that this is the best he’s felt in three fucking months.

He made a mental plan to go out again the next night. He’d ring up some old rugby mates. They’d probably drink him under the table, but what the hell. Under the table is better than… Better than… this.

Goddamn you, Sherlock.

He stumbled into bed, pulling his shoes off as an afterthought. He fished his wallet and change out of his pockets while lying down and haphazardly threw them on the nightstand. John removed his belt lazily, turning on one side and then the other to get it out of the loops of his trousers. It wound up on the floor. Well, that was exhausting. And why is it so hot? Oh. John still had his jacket on. He sat up, removed it, and threw it on the floor. Keep my belt company.

Vaguely he wondered where Sherlock was and then convinced himself he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and saw Sherlock’s face. He hated that face: almond shaped eyes of crystalline shifting color, dark curls hanging over them, his face (cheekbones) wet with sweat from the physical exertion of lovemaking, that perfectly obscene mouth saying his name… Oh god, he was beautiful.

The erection in John’s trousers agreed. Hating himself, he stroked over the cloth. The light touch was enough to increase the blood flow and John’s breath caught.

I hate you, Sherlock.

Suddenly his brain recalled the time that Sherlock took him up against the wall between the windows in the sitting room. The table that was usually there was pushed over to be more in front of the right side window for one of Sherlock’s experiments. The experiment over, the table never got moved back. So there was a blank space created beneath the hanging skull. And today that space was clearly meant for sex. John could still feel the rough wallpaper against his back. He didn’t really mind that the wall was cold. He barely registered it when Sherlock pinned his hands above his head and kissed him.

John remembered that kiss: slow, languid, almost lazy… and so fucking sexy. 

He increased the pressure of his stroke over his erection with the memory, feeling out the size and shape of his cock through the material.

On that day, he had lifted a leg and wrapped it around Sherlock, pulling their hips closer together. Sherlock dipped his body down to align them and rubbed against John with a rhythm that was just as languid and lazy as the kiss.

Oh… fuck. John opened his trousers needing to relive the pressure on his now throbbing member. It popped free and John cursed Sherlock’s name under his breath as he hitched his trousers all the way off and kicked them to the floor. Slowly he pulled back his boxers. His erection was dripping and he hadn’t even gotten to the best part of the memory.

Sherlock left him against the wall. He was gone for less than a minute, but it was like torture. John kept his eyes closed and waited. He heard footsteps and felt hands at his belt buckle. Trousers and pants were rucked down to his ankles and John stepped out of both, kicking them aside. Suddenly his cock was surrounded by wet heat. He opened his eyes with a gasp and saw two beautiful almond-shaped crystalline eyes staring at him intently, mouth around the head of his prick. Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked on John’s cock with abandon.

John had never felt such perfection. The memory of Sherlock’s warm, wet, soft velvet tongue on the underside of his cock made him shiver in the darkness. As he stroked himself he used only his fingertips, wanting the climax to come slowly in time with the memory of that day. 

John remembered being so close and begging Sherlock for more. Sherlock granted his request. He pulled off of John’s cock and with a well-lubed finger, probed John’s hole. John let out a hiss of anticipation. He had learned that Sherlock’s long slender fingers were so very nimble. Oh yes… there, Sherlock… John almost came from the prostate stimulation alone. Then there were two fingers and that was even better. Sherlock gripped the base of John’s cock gently but firmly, not wanting him to come just yet.

Then he was being lifted against the wall, one leg high on Sherlock’s hip, the other barely touching the floor. And Sherlock’s cock was at his entrance. Just like that. John’s eyes snapped open and stared with wonder at Sherlock’s strength. The detective’s eyes were heavy lidded and blown wide with desire, his mouth begged to be kissed. John felt the pressure of that perfect cock entering him slowly, slowly… and finally Sherlock was inside him fully. John kissed Sherlock, tonguing him deeply, not wanting to ever let go.

Sherlock’s strength was beginning to flag and John reached out to either side and gripped the window frames for balance. He wanted Sherlock to take him against this wall and anywhere else he desired. Sherlock hitched John’s legs more securely around his waist and thrust deeply, over and over.

Both men groaned with pleasure at the sensation. But even with John helping to support them, the position was too much of a strain. John caught Sherlock’s eye and tilted his head toward the table in front of the window. Sherlock gave him a sly grin and picked John up, carried him over to the table and deposited him on it. Sherlock had slipped out during the transfer, but enveloped himself once again in John’s heat, gazing down at the beautiful doctor with every slow, aching stroke.

There was something about fucking in the sitting room of 221B. Perhaps it was the danger of being caught by Mrs. Hudson, or burst in upon by Lestrade. Whatever the reason, it heightened the desire in both of them. But today, in full view of anyone who cared to look up into their window, the passion between them was a white hot blaze. John remembered thinking how it would be if Sherlock fucked him up against the window itself.

He didn’t care who saw them. As he watched Sherlock orgasm and felt his cum enter him, he realized how proud he would be if someone saw them together like this. He wanted the whole world to watch him fuck Sherlock. He wanted the world to witness how beautiful this man was during orgasm.

You are so fucking gorgeous.

You are so amazingly beautiful.

You are all mine.

I love you, Sherlock.

John came quietly in his bedroom, his hand catching most of his ejaculate.

Oh god, Sherlock.

I hate you so damn much.

How could you?

 

~080~

 

Ringing up his old rugby mates for drinks the next night was the best idea John ever made because that’s when he met her.

“You should go talk to her, Johnny,” said Kelle. He was always the ladies man of the old rugby club and never went anywhere without spotting a stunning female to pursue. Now of course, he was older and married to Joan and had three kids. But that didn’t stop him from attempting to live vicariously through his friends. “What are you worried about? You’re a single guy. And I don’t see a ring on her finger,” he said.

The blonde was a pretty one. John was two and a half pints into his evening. Might not be a bad idea to chat up a friendly little blonde. The little voice inside John that told him right from wrong was asleep and dreaming of hops and barley. Boldness took its place. John took one more swig of his pint and walked over to her.

The shouts of encouragement from his mates faded off as he focused on her. He smiled in a way that he hoped she would find harmless and charming. She smiled back. This looked promising.

“John,” he said and stuck his hand out. 

She took it in hers and said: “Mary.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you sitting alone,” began John. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’m actually waiting on a friend,” she said.

“So I’ll help you wait,” he said. “Is that so terrible? When they get here, I’ll clear off. Fair enough?”

Charmed by his logic and his deep blue eyes, she replied, “I suppose that’s not so bad. It’s a deal.”

Their small talk lasted for almost an hour before either of them noticed the time.

“I guess your friend stood you up,” said John.

“I guess so.”

“Not a very good friend, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No. It seems not,” said Mary and smiled at John. “But… I am kind of glad.”

John grinned. “Ta,” he said. “I’m glad too.”

“Can I see you again, John?” said Mary. John thought she must have thought herself a bit bold with that question because she blushed a beautiful shade of pink. John thought she was stunning like that.

“I’d love that.”

 

~080~

 

After three weeks of dating Mary, John’s life had a new focus. He was no longer distracted and day-dreamy. He was concentrated on his patients and their care. He would hum to himself when he prepared tea. He was beginning to find contentment. Things were far from perfect, but they were getting better. Mary made all the difference.

The surgery on Monday was busy as always. John loved working Mondays. It got him out of the house and away from the painful reminder that he lived with and, despite all his efforts to the contrary, he still loved a robot. In what spare moments he had, he thought about Mary.

She was everything he had ever found desirable in a woman: she was opinionated but not pushy, smart but not arrogant, beautiful but not conceited, and merciful without being mothering. In other words, she was perfect. Almost.

There was something that always niggled at the back of John’s brain when it came to being alone with Mary. He adored her company. He delighted in their conversations. He even liked it when they disagreed. And the sex… well. But even then, there was something Not Quite Enough.

Mary wanted a real relationship with John. She had a plan. She wanted him to move in because according to her logic: she was determined to be the one to “loan out” John to Sherlock instead of always feeling like she was the one waiting for him to be free. All the other girlfriends he had hated competing with the detective for John’s time and attention and Mary resented it too but was worlds more understanding than any of the others.

“He needs you, John,” she said one day. “As you say, it’s only a matter of time before he gets himself killed. You have to help him.”

So there was no fear that Sherlock would be completely without John by his side. Mary just wanted more control over the situation. John moving in seemed like the logical thing to do.

Despite being unaware of Mary’s “master plan”, Sherlock had been surprisingly tolerant of her as well. But even he had his moments. Not all situations could be so carefully controlled. Once he pulled John away on a case when John and Mary were out having dinner at a restaurant. He’d swept in, all glossy black hair and cheekbones, coat flying like a cape, and simply said: “John.”

That voice of his could still do things to him. More than once, his breath caught when Sherlock called his name. And it didn’t matter where it happened either: at a crime scene, in a restaurant, in a pub, in the sitting room, in the kitchen, in the shower.

No. Wait. John was thinking about Mary and now he was sitting over his egg salad on his lunch break thinking about Sherlock in the shower.

Bit not good.

Heart, stop it. Just stop it. Unfair.

John needed a drink.

 

~080~

 

“Sherlock!” John yelled. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing with my shirt?”

“It’s for science, John,” said Sherlock softly as he carefully measured out the acid into a graduated cylinder.

“Oh well… in that case… STOP,” said John. He was about to get quite angry. The man knew no limit.

“I’m in the middle of the experiment. To stop now would be to throw out two hours worth of work,” said Sherlock. “I’m afraid I’m not going to do that.”

“Well I’m afraid that I’m going to murder you with a butter knife if you don’t, you berk.” John stood with his hands on his hips glaring at the detective.

“Nonsense, John,” said Sherlock coolly. “It’s just a shirt. I’ll buy you a new one. And besides, you are incapable of doing me any harm. You said so yourself.”

John threw his arms wide. “When did I say that, Sherlock?” asked John. He was properly angry now.

“Just before the first time we had sexual intercourse,” said Sherlock. He looked pointedly at John. “I’m surprised you don’t remember. You are the more sentimental of the two of us.” Smoothly and casually, he bent his head over the kitchen table and lit a Bunsen burner.

It was as if Sherlock had slapped John in the face.

You machine.

“Y –you… machine!” exclaimed John. “How dare you bring that up? I’m just starting to move past it all… to forget… and you go and—, “John stopped. Sherlock stared back at him. The detective regarded John as if he were a culture in a Petrie dish: with curiosity and cold, clinical evaluation. John’s gut lurched. He felt tears come to his eyes.

Do not cry in front of the machine.

He bit back the tears and said, “You may be able to shut off that mechanical heart of yours like- like a- a goddamn light switch, but those of us who are actually human… are completely… incapable of that. I don’t expect you to understand. After all, relationships aren’t really your ‘area’. Do you remember telling me that? The first damn day we met, Sherlock? And then I kissed you – at your encouragement! – and we were alright for a while. And then I went away for two flipping weeks and came home, we made love, and then you ended it. You started it and you ended it. And I’m the one left holding onto the broken pieces. How is that fair, exactly?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it again, clearly at a loss.

“Just because I don’t have a blackened piece of flesh where a living heart should be, does not mean that I should be the only one suffering for this, Sherlock. But you haven’t suffered a bit, have you? No. Of course not. You’ve just buried yourself in your first love – the great game – and left me behind. As usual. And I’ll tell you another thing,” said John. “This ‘scorched earth’ approach you have to what was once a beautiful relationship is killing me.” He was past the point of being able to stop himself. The floodgates had opened and all the feelings he had stored up and shut away for almost four months were forcing their way out of him from all directions.

John counted off on his fingers. “You have ignored me. Pushed me away. Spoken down to me. All of which make me feel lower than the dirt. And when you do manage to speak to me directly, it’s to do with a case or it’s ‘for science’. Well fuck you, Sherlock Holmes! You deserve to die alone in an alley somewhere. Or better yet, a goddamn house fire. And you can go to hell too, for all I care.” John grabbed his jacket and headed to the door. He needed a drink and he needed one badly.

“Where are you going?” asked Sherlock. He had been frozen to the spot ever since John began his speech.

John stopped, staring at Sherlock as if he were stupid. Finally he muttered, “What the hell do you care?”

The front door slammed shut.


	2. Sherlock's Head

“What on earth is going on in my head?  
You know I used to be so sharp.  
You know I used to be so definite.  
Thought I knew what love was for.”

John took the news of his decision surprisingly well. He didn’t argue the point at all. He simply got up, washed himself with a flannel from the bathroom and made to go to bed, heading toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

“You should know I’ve taken the liberty of moving your bedroom back in order. You are free to sleep with me tonight if you wish, but I do need it to be for the last time, John.”

John stopped in mid-stride at this. He looked at Sherlock over his shoulder and said nothing. His expression was blank. Sherlock assumed he was just exhausted from the plane journey and the sexual congress that had just occurred on the sitting room floor.

John turned and went upstairs to his old bedroom without further comment.

~080~

 

Soon after, the Trent house murder investigation was underway and Sherlock was completely absorbed. Clues abounded that didn’t fit together. Suspects were lying and covering up for one another. There was so much he could see through. And John was by his side the entire time. Sherlock was satisfied to know that when push came to shove, he could always depend on John Watson.

Once the two month investigation ended, however, life was dull and boring again. Sherlock threw himself into his experiments, barely noticing the comings and goings of John, Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. Late nights were spent at the morgue with Molly and a few interesting cadavers, but nothing seemed to satisfy his mind for very long.

It was one night with nothing in particular to do to distract himself that John left him. He got a text from someone and just took off.

“Going out,” John had said.

“What?” asked Sherlock. John didn’t answer.

“John?”

The front door slammed shut.

It was three hours later that Sherlock deduced that it had been either Stamford or Lestrade that had texted John. Sherlock was lying on his bed in his room when John came home. He heard John trip on the top stair just before the landing. He had been drinking. These days, if John went out it was either because Stamford or Lestrade had called him. Obvious.

He heard John’s drunken tread on the floor, the creak of the bed, and the thump-thump of his shoes hitting the carpet. The loose change John kept in his pockets hit the floor, most likely because he had been lying down when the change was fished out of his pockets. John probably just haphazardly threw it onto his bedside table and missed. And then something else hit the floor… his belt, most likely, considering the creaking of the box spring. He would be too lazy with drunkenness to bother to stand up to take it off. A few more creaks of the bed and then there was a general silence. Sherlock assumed it was over and that John had passed out.

Sherlock was inwardly disgusted with John. He couldn’t place his finger on it as it had more to do with human emotions (unreliable at the best of times) than with actual known and measurable facts, but there was something off about John lately and it annoyed Sherlock to no end.

The bed above his head creaked again. John was repositioning himself for sleep. Glad someone can sleep around here. Sherlock’s brain was about to break loose from its hinges if he didn’t get some kind of a distraction going. He needed for his brain to shut off. 

He thought about the last time he actually slept. More than three days now. And John didn’t make a peep about it. That’s certainly unusual. What other unusual behavior had John been exhibiting? 

John wasn’t speaking to him much. John always used to initiate the useless small talk of the everyday person. Usually it was boring, but John’s perspective on the mundane was always interesting to Sherlock. God knows why.

John hadn’t pestered him about eating either. Last meal intake occurred 21 hours ago. Not bad as things go, but more than 15 hours and John usually started to say something.

So… what can we glean from the facts here? Eating, sleeping and talking. The three things that most made John ‘John’ had stopped without fanfare. What did it mean? And when did it begin, exactly? Sherlock thought back.

Sherlock first noticed it a week ago when the Trent house murder case had been closed. Was it something about the case that affected John? He was there throughout the case, answering any medical queries thrown his way, keeping up with all the running, the witness interviews, and the deductions. He was his same, steady, helpful self. No change there, then.

What about before that? Well… before that had been their break up, which he seemed to handle well. True, he was quiet about it, but that was to be expected. It was a shock to him. He had declared his love for Sherlock, albeit prematurely, and slept upstairs in his old bed without so much as a whimper about it.

Sherlock said a silent prayer of thanks to a perhaps non-existent deity that John was not born a girl. A woman would have let him have it right away and at the top of her lungs. John was not like that. He suffered in silence. Which is the only proper way any Englishman should suffer: quietly and with dignity.

The answers escaped him, but it was a new puzzle for his brain to chew on. That would be enough. The bed above him creaked again, this time rhythmically. Sherlock heard a faint groan. Masturbation. The only answer. Inside Sherlock something primal whimpered. He turned on his side and willed himself to sleep.

Quietly and with dignity. It was the only way to suffer.

 

~080~

He went out with his old rugby mates tonight. It was as if he had been seeking escape from 221B. Sherlock added that to the pile of clues and felt depressed. This is exactly the thing he was trying to avoid when he broke things off with John in the first place. Something needed to be done, but not until John had gone out for the night. He needed to figure out a way to get John to snap out of it, to get his old colleague back.

Sherlock knew John would be upset, but there was nothing for it. He needed to go to John’s room and have a look about. Once John had gotten into the cab, Sherlock tore himself away from the window and raced up the stairs, his long legs carrying him up three at a time.

Opening the door, he found things well in order, with the exception of some spare change under the bed and bedside table. Sherlock had not been in this room for three months and the room smelled of John. It was intoxicating.

Sherlock sat upon John’s bed and placed his hand on his pillow. Why did he do that? This had nothing to do with his investigations. Stop. Focus.

He looked about the room. Not many personal items in this room. A picture of Harry and Clara shared a dual frame with a picture of John’s parents and sat on the dresser across from the foot of the bed. A bottle of John’s cologne sat next to it. Without thinking, Sherlock went to it and sniffed at the contents. Its scent was powerful and suddenly the temperature in the room went up by fifteen degrees. Why? Sherlock would have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about the heating.

One by one, Sherlock opened all the drawers in the dresser. Pants, socks, shirts, jeans: all folded neatly, all in perfect order. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was hidden underneath them. No secrets here.

Sherlock moved to the wardrobe in the corner. Jumpers, jumpers and more jumpers, some nicer shirts, a few sport coats and blazer jackets, dress pants, a raincoat, a winter coat, and a garment bag with a zipper at the end. What was in that?

Sherlock took it off the pole and brought it to the bed. He unzipped the bag and discovered John’s Army dress uniform. He felt the thick cloth, the weight of it. He thought of all that John must have seen in the war; all the death and destruction that was handed out like candy. John was so strong despite all he’d seen. So strong, in fact, that he was willing to bear witness to death and destruction on a smaller scale right here in London.

Inexplicably, Sherlock felt ashamed. How could he bring this man into so much danger? Why couldn’t he stop John from following him into the dark? What was it about John Watson that made him want to always be there for Sherlock? Was that what love was? And if so, what did that say about how Sherlock felt about him?

Too many questions with no answers, thought Sherlock. He zipped up the garment bag and put it away where he found it.

There were no other clues, but Sherlock needed to think. He lay down on John’s bed and closed his eyes. John’s scent surrounded him anew and instantly Sherlock relaxed.

His hands drifted unconsciously down his body and Sherlock realized with more than a little curiosity that he was half aroused. How had this happened? He wasn’t picturing anything particularly sexual. But John’s scent was enough to arouse him. Amazing.

He took the pillow from behind his head and held it to his chest while the other hand lazily stroked his building erection. This was intriguing. He wondered if he could accelerate this response by introducing additional stimuli.

Sherlock got up and went to the wardrobe. He chose one of John’s jumpers (the beige one he liked so much) and held it to his face. Inhaling deeply, he recalled the first time John had worn it. It was the day they first met. And if Sherlock was honest, at the time he wanted to jump the good doctor right there in the bloody lab – in front of Stamford and all.

He looked to the garment bag again and felt his cock twitch. He positioned the hanger so that the garment bag hung out on top of the clothes that were already there and unzipped the zipper, exposing the uniform. Oh dear God… what is this?

His cock throbbed for contact. Holding onto the jumper, Sherlock lay back on the bed, John’s pillow under his head and stared at the uniform in the wardrobe. He reached into his pants and took hold of his prick. He stroked lightly at first but soon he quickened the pace, rubbing his thumb along the slit, smearing the precum that had gathered there. Feeling its slickness increase his pleasure, he inhaled John’s scent from the jumper and allowed his mind to drift to thoughts of his beautiful doctor.

That uniform would look so good on him. And if Sherlock’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, and they never did, John would probably still fit in it. The thought made Sherlock moan with pleasure. Oh god, to be able to take that man in his uniform and bend him over the sofa… or better still, to be taken by such a man. Commanding him to his knees and ordering Sherlock to suck him off. Oh Captain, my Captain… Sherlock’s rhythm increased slightly and his pressure tightened at the thought.

It was all too much. His balls tightened and he was losing control. The thought of John’s softness, comfort, splendid smile, joyful laughter, physical strength, passionate orgasms… John was all around him and when Sherlock came it was with John’s name on his lips: John, John, JohnJohnJohn…

 

~080~

 

Four hours and twenty-three minutes had elapsed before Sherlock realized that he had fallen asleep. What had woken him? Oh! The front door slamming. John was home.

Sherlock got up and straightened the sheets of John’s bed, folded the jumper and placed it back in the wardrobe, and repositioned the garment bag and zipped it up, and evaluated the state of mess he was in. His cum had dried, nothing he could do. He hurried out of the room, closing the door carefully and made his way down to the second level as quietly as he could. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson had also heard John come home and was talking to him downstairs. Sherlock sent up his second prayer of thanks inside of twenty-four hours and went to bed.

 

~080~

 

Three hateful weeks of John mooning about Mary had come and gone. Sherlock was fed up with her. Oh she wasn’t all that bad, really, not a serial killer or anything, but she wanted too much of John’s time, that much was obvious. Yet, she was different from the rest in the way she wanted it. She wanted John on her own terms. She wanted him to move in with her. Well, that was up to John. It was none of Sherlock’s business. But if he needed John, he was going to get John’s help – girlfriend or no girlfriend.

Sherlock was sure that John hadn’t told Mary about Sherlock being his lover. There were times when Sherlock was feeling particularly evil and ill-tempered and wanted to tell Mary about all the times that Sherlock fucked John senseless in the sitting room of 221B. Matter of fact… right on the sofa you’re sitting on, my dear.

But he was an Englishman. He didn’t do such things.

But he really, really wanted to.

 

~080~

 

He supposed it was this subconscious rage against Mary that drove Sherlock to experiment on John’s shirt. It was a nicer one of bamboo blend and it would be unique to experiment on. He had all his acids prepared and the shirt had been cut up and arranged in pieces according to thickness and location on the original garment. He was setting up the Bunsen burner when John had his… emotional explosion.

You machine!

How dare you bring that up?

…but those of us who are actually human…

I’m the one left holding onto the broken pieces. How is that fair, exactly?

…a blackened piece of flesh where a living heart should be…

You haven’t suffered a bit, have you?

…this “scorched earth” policy…

You have ignored me. Pushed me away. Spoken down to me…

You deserve to die alone in an alley somewhere. Or better yet, a goddamn house fire…

What the hell do you care?

What the hell do you care?

What the hell do you care?

Sherlock put out the flame of the Bunsen and sat down. He noticed with some alarm that he was shaking.

What just happened? This wasn’t about the shirt. This wasn’t about Mary. It was about the break up. That was almost four months ago now. Why was John doing this now?

At the time, Sherlock thought he was doing what was best. He thought John had understood. He had explained. John didn’t say a word to him. Not a word. So where had Sherlock gone wrong? What had he done? What had he not done? What had he said? What had he not said?

Oh… too many questions! Too many questions! John! What did I do?

Sherlock had never been so confused in the whole of his life. Ignored him? Pushed him away? When? Talked down to him? That happened with everyone occasionally.

Sherlock needed more information. He needed more control over the situation. He needed for his brain to stop, stop, STOP.

Sherlock went to John’s room and collapsed on his bed. Surrounded by his scent, Sherlock found a bit of comfort. There was no one he could rely on more than John. And now he needed John to explain himself and John wasn’t here.

It was all too much for him. With nothing else to do, his body betrayed him. Sherlock wept.

The last time he cried had to have been when he was about 14 years old. It was just after Daddy died and Mycroft had come for the funeral. Everyone was being so tiresome, no one more so than Mummy.

Mummy wanted him dressed just so and he complied. She wanted him to stand next to the coffin and receive the guests. He was to shake hands, make eye contact, and be polite. It was hateful.

Then Mycroft came in. At first, Sherlock lit up. He loved his brother and hated that he left. But once he saw that Mycroft was all puffed up with self-importance and more than a few slices of cake, Sherlock resented him for going away and even more for becoming one of them – a person beholden to society and its mores.

But the real stab to the heart was the praise Mummy lavished on her golden boy. Mycroft tried not to rub it in Sherlock’s face but that’s exactly what he did when he acted so modestly in front of everyone. It was completely fake and everyone bought it. It made Sherlock sick.

It meant Sherlock was alone.

Daddy was dead. He never really loved Sherlock anyway. Mummy was over the moon about Mycroft and his success. All Sherlock ever got from her was rules and things he shouldn’t do. And now, here was Mycroft: once his only refuge in the family for something that resembled emotional support and he too had succumbed to the social compliance that everyone else was drunk on. He never felt more alone.

Sherlock snuck off and hid in the broom closet under the grand staircase. The tears streamed hot down his cheeks before he realized that he was actually crying. His chest heaved. His eyes shut tight. He gripped the handle of a broom, bent his head and let the sadness sweep over him like a tidal wave.

Years later, here was the same little boy, all grown up and crying open hot tears onto his former lover’s pillow. John was going to leave him. He was certain of it now. Where did he go wrong? Why was he always alone? What was he going to do now?

He cried and cried and cried until something deep inside Sherlock shut down.

He sat up.

No. This will not do. He would find a way. He always found a way. He was fine before he met John, he would be fine now. Nothing for it but to bear down and deal with the situation. John’s room is practically empty anyway. It’s not as if it will change much. It’ll just be another room for his experiments. He did like having a lab up here. That was it. It was going to have to be enough for Sherlock to just rely on Sherlock.

He looked at the clock. Could that really be the time? He checked his phone. Yes, three hours had gone by. Had he really cried for three hours straight? That must be some kind of a personal best. No matter. There would be no more tears shed tonight or any other night. Sherlock was done. 

And so was the partnership of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

How could he have allowed this to even begin? Sherlock was a fool for it, but no longer. Sentiment had no place in his life. After all, he didn’t really have a heart, just a blackened piece of flesh where a living heart should be.

He couldn’t wait for John to move in with Mary. He would be able to breathe then. He could air out this room and start anew. Perhaps a coat of fresh paint would help? Yes, that would be just the thing. He would talk to Mrs. Hudson about it in the morning.

The front door closed and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice shouting. He left John’s room and leaned over the staircase.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

“It’s John, dear. He’s home but he’s in a right state. DI Lestrade has him but he needs your help to get him up to his room. Would you come down, dear?” said Mrs. Hudson.

Panic hit Sherlock like a brick wall. John? Hurt? Sherlock would never forgive himself.

He raced down the stairs and his sharp eyes took in the scene: John was dangling from Lestrade by his arm that the DI had slung over his own neck. John wasn’t injured. He was drunk. Stinking, stumbling, stupidly drunk.

That tore it. There was no forgiveness in Sherlock’s heart. He looked at his former lover, his former best friend, and felt…. nothing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [天哪，天哪](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232437) by [Pattypancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattypancake/pseuds/Pattypancake)




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